[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor’s musings were broken suddenly. The men around him were standing, being led out into the snow by their hosts. Slowly, Carthor stood and wrapping his fur blanket more tightly around his broad shoulders, he followed the backs of the men in front of him up the short ramp out of the low-slung ice-house. The hide door-flap slapped loudly against the roof, moved by the fierce wind, as he walked away. He followed the men in front of him through the small camp, shivering despite the weight of his warm shroud. The group halted outside another, slightly smaller, ice-house.

It was low and square, with piles of snow heaped up against its square walls in mounds. From outside, the house gave as little purchase possible for the grasping claws of the north wind to latch onto. The structure seemed more sharply shaped than the others he had noticed, as if it had been built but recently. As he stood by the entrance, two Lossoth emerged from the enclosed entrance; both bore flat, broad shovels carved of bone. One ushered the seven Dunedain, including King Arvedui, through the entrance. The square structure was covered in many animal furs and blankets, and a cheerful fire glinted from its centre, the smoke from which wound its way lazily out of a hidden chimney in the roof above. Several immense fish were hanging on a smoking rack from the roof above.

Curling up in a nook by the fire, Carthor fell into the abyss of the deepest of sleeps, only waking briefly to eat some smoked fish and wrap himself more tightly in the fronds of his fur shroud.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The dream . . .


Lissi turned slowly, the light, black fabric of her mantle sweeping across the dark flagstones of the floor, sending gusts of fine grey ash into the eddying breeze. She paced slowly across the cold stone of the floor, toward a long, polished oak table. Other figures stood solemnly around the great table, their faces shrouded by heavy hoods. Each of the tall silent figures wore a red or green tabard, embroidered with the devices of Arnor. Cold blue light streamed softy in through the blackened remains of the rafters above the group’s bowed heads. The entire room was filled with the light’s coldness, all the room except the length of the great oaken table, which was cast in thick shadow.

Slowly, Lissi’s erect frame strode toward the table, her veiled features smitten heavily by shadow. Her pale hand reached from under the folds of black fabric and tugged gently at the grey covering draped over the form lying on the table. Slowly, her hand revealed a shining silver helm, covering the grey, wavy locks of the old soldier. Piercing blue eyes stared out from under the carved brow of the helm, their black centres reflecting the cold light from above.

The grey shroud was pulled away, sliding silently off the table, pooling like spent blood in folds and waves. The stout man’s hands were folded over the hilt of a shining broadsword, the blade of which was notched and scarred. Broad stains of dried blood littered his scarlet tabard, like grisly continents on a sea of blood. Stepping back, Lissi’s proud head bowed in a signalling nod.

As one man, the tall onlookers stepped forward, each bearing a long piece of wood in his hand. The wood piled in rows, like soldiers in rank, around the edge of the great table. With another nod, the men’s forms receded to their original positions, their faces still shrouded.

Lissi stepped to the side of the table, a great earthen flask carried in the crook of her right arm. Starting at the old soldier’s head, she poured the oily contents of the flask over his spread form. Then, reverently, she laid herself by his left side, upending the flask over her black gown. She folded her slender fingers across her lap and closed her eyes.

The tall men took a single uniform step forward, the orange flames of lit torches illuminating their cold hands with a dancing, flickering light. Each thrust his torch into the piled wood. Immediately the flame’s blades rang out from their scabbards and thrusting through the oils, bit into the wood. Boots snapped against the cold floor as the hooded men stepped backwards.

A single figure remained within reach of the flames. In a smooth motion, his nimble fingers reached up and slowly pulled down the black of his hood. The dancing gold light of the pyre lit Brander’s face as he stared, unmistakeably, down at his parents’ forms as they were devoured, his green eyes shining.